


Age of Man

by darkangel1211



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cannibalism, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 01:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19307923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel1211/pseuds/darkangel1211
Summary: Now that the time has come, his resolve waivers in the presence of his Lord's most treasured sister. Still, the question must be asked. “May I be so bold as to inquire of the fate of your brother?”(An exploratory piece where the Unkindled - the last remaining member of the Blades of the Darkmoon - seeks his Lord and Master, Dark Sun Gwyndolin. Set during the events of Dark Souls 3 and makes reference to events in Dark Souls 1).





	Age of Man

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Time Makes All the Difference](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6999052) by [Kajune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kajune/pseuds/Kajune). 



> A/N: I took some liberties with the dialogue from Dark Souls 1 and also with how Gwyndolin speaks within this story, mostly because trying to find an accurate Old English translator online is exceedingly difficult.
> 
> I'm happy with the end result in any case. 
> 
> Enjoy! xxx

_“If thou art a true disciple of the Dark Sun, cast aside thine ire, hear the voice of mineself, Gwyndolin, and kneel before me.”_

 oOo

 Anor Londo isn’t the same as it was before. The ice is slippery under his feet and the cold bites into his flesh, between the gaps in his armour to freeze already sore joints. His sword feels heavier than it should, his breath escaping him in clouds of mist as the warmth of his ember meets the icy air. 

How many Silver Knights have been slain now? How many times has he narrowly escaped the length of swords and arrows which were intent on plunging straight through his chest? Too many to count and the heat from the bonfire is barely enough to loosen muscles which have become prone to seizing.

Yet, despite the aches in his body and the almost unbearable need to rest, he must continue. His duty is not yet done. 

oOo

_“O Disciple of the Dark Sun. Thou hast journeyed far; hear my voice … I shalt protect thee, safeguarding thy person with the power of the Darkmoon.”_

oOo

Unkindled as he is, his memory isn’t what it once was, but he remembers it now.

That voice.

They could almost be beside each other.

The bonfire crackles in front of him, the coiled sword glowing red hot where the point is buried in the embers. The warmth he feels now pales in comparison to the Anor Londo of his past; he cannot begin to fathom what has happened in his absence and his mouth purses in a frown. If only he’d been stronger than.

_“If mine power be need’st, I shall assist thee…”_

His head is slightly bowed, shielding his eyes from the freezing wind which blows into his helmet if given the slightest opportunity. The power of the Darkmoon has never been so far from his reach, not since…

No, now is not the time; only once he is finished will he allow himself to ponder it.

Perhaps not even then.

oOo

“Oh, good Blade of the Darkmoon, welcome home!”

“My Lady Yorshka,” he says, his body already kneeling before her in the practised way he knows so well and bowing his head in reverence, for she is a Goddess among men and he is an Unkindled.

“It has been too long,” she says, her smile a tender and fragile thing.

“Indeed, it has, my Lady.” He pauses here, barely daring to breathe the words which lie on the tip of his tongue. Now that the time has come, his resolve waivers in the presence of his Lord's most treasured sister. Still, the question must be asked. “May I be so bold as to inquire of the fate of your brother?”

Her smile falters now, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Ah, so you remain unaware of his plight... The Dark Sun Gwyndolin was stricken by illness and the leadership of the knights fell to me.” She lowers her head and her brow furrows with remembered anger. “Then Sulyvahn wrongfully proclaimed himself Pontiff, and took me prisoner.” Lady Vorshka visibly gathers herself here, a show of strength amidst her turmoil, but even that isn’t enough to completely hide the grief the Unkindled can see lining her body. “Oh,” she says, her soft sigh almost a whisper, “where could my dear brother be?”

She looks back at the Unkindled before her, the most favoured of her brother’s Knights, and finally the tears begin to fall. “If only he were here,” she murmurs, “I would be most pleased for ye both to meet again. As, most assuredly, would he.”

oOo

The Pontiff is an elusive figure, hiding behind his Beasts and what remains of his Knights. They are strong, perhaps because of their proximity to their master, yet if Lady Yorshka is correct, the Pontiff may know the location of Dark Sun Gwyndolin and that is worth any price.

The Beasts fall to his blade, their hands clasped together in a trembling fear. Praying for mercy or for their absent master, it matters little to the Unkindled. The same holds true for the fate of the Knights, furious in their attacks despite their light and brittle armour. Almost as if they know the enemy he seeks.

He finds Pontiff Sulyvahn in the cathedral. The fight is intense and bloody, twisted with sorceries and deception, but his sword hand remains steady and unwavering against such power. As it is, the soul he pulls free of the Pontiff’s corpse is defiant, proudly proclaiming his success in imprisoning a god of the old royalty in the abandoned cathedral, to be fed to the devourer.

The Unkindled is at once both intensely furious and deeply afraid by this acquired knowledge. If his Lord had indeed been taken ill at the time of Sulyvahn’s betrayal, as confirmed by Lady Yorshka, could the Pontiff’s soul be talking about Dark Sun Gwyndolin?

For the first time since his awakening, he feels an unease stirring in his chest, but this only bolsters his resolve to find answers. Standing from the cathedral bonfire, he makes his final preparations before departing to seek Aldrich, Saint of the Deep.

oOo

The unease from before only strengthens as he nears the hall where Aldrich resides. Even his helmet is unable to stifle the sounds coming from beyond the doors, a man’s voice clearly groaning in unadulterated agony. The Unkindled is reminded, briefly, of a description pulled from one of Aldrich’s followers; of how the Saint had the desire to share with others his joy of imbibing the final shudders of life while luxuriating in his victim’s screams.

His hands find purchase against the heavy wood, the hinges creaking in protest against his entry even as the doors give way under his persistence. A persistence belied by the growing desperation thrumming in his blood, for he knows that voice.

He knows!

The sight which greets him has the Unkindled nearly collapsing to the floor, the depths of his fear fully realised. The words pass unbidden from his lips, known only to the other in this very hall.  _“My Soul…”_

The man, the  _God_ , twists his frame sharply towards the sound of the Unkindled’s voice, the pained noises escaping his throat ceasing for a moment. His crown does little to cover the fact that he is in shock, his face reflecting both that and his agony. “My Blade,” he whispers, yet even at this distance, the Unkindled sees the words clearly formed on Gwyndolin’s lips.

The Unkindled’s sword is already in his hands as he takes in a sight he has mourned for millennia. It’s obvious that Aldrich has been interrupted in the midst of his feast, as the God’s upper torso has yet to be devoured, and the rage he felt in the cathedral once again takes centre-stage. He rushes forward, Aldrich reacting too late to his presence. Gwyndolin cries out in pain as Aldrich seizes control of his body and forces him to defend the parasite against the intruder, but the Unkindled deftly rolls to avoid a deadly sweep of the scythe and buries his sword in the place where Aldrich’s mouth is.

The blade flares with flame upon contact and the Lord of Cinder shrieks in pain, releasing his grip on Gwyndolin’s body and thrashing to avoid the fire the Unkindled has unleashed on him. Undeterred by Aldrich’s rage, the Unkindled pulls Gwyndolin free from the Saint and out into the relative safety of the hall. He knows at once that his Beloved’s body is too thin, his skin taut and stained from his exposure to a soul steeped in darkness, but now, at least for the moment, he is still alive.

The Unkindled rests Gwyndolin against a wall, the God’s face grimacing in pain as even the smallest movement jostles frayed nerves. An estus flask finds its way to Gwyndolin’s lips, gently tipping the life-giving essence into his mouth to provide a small measure of relief. The damage to the God’s body is extensive, seemingly almost beyond repair, but the Unkindled refuses to give into doubt. His Lord is a son of Gwyn; he will heal.

Looking back into the main hall, the Unkindled takes in the sight of the monster, the so-called Lord of Cinder in all his tainted glory, and rises to his feet. His blade hasn't lost its fire and the heat of the flame scorches his hand as he withdraws it. Distantly, he's aware of never having felt this focused before, his purpose lying on the ground beside him. Lord of Cinder or not, Aldrich's death was already foretold in the very moment he touched Gwyndolin.

The battle, as it happens, is over too soon. Aldrich is weak and sluggish without the use of Gwyndolin’s body to defend him and the Unkindled repeatedly sinks his blade into the weaknesses the Saint exposes to him with what seems like little effort. The Saint’s jaws are scorched from the fire and swollen around his teeth, providing a fleshy barrier and the massive bulk the creature carries also works in the Unkindled’s favour, enabling his lighter frame to dodge any attacks with ease. When, at last, Aldrich collapses in his death throes and his body sinks into the sludge surrounding them, the Unkindled wipes his blade clean and re-sheathes it without a backwards glance. His only concern now is his Lord.

Gwyndolin still clutches the estus flask in his hands, the last of the medicine casting a golden glow around his thin frame when the Unkindled reaches him. “My Blade,” the God murmurs again when he sees that the other man has returned to him, his voice hoarse and weak in his throat.

The Unkindled rushes to his side, hands already reaching for the empty estus flask and replacing it with another, encouraging Gwyndolin to drink. “Save your strength,” he says, cupping a hand behind Gwyndolin’s head and tilting it forward when the other struggles to do so. He’s surprised to find he has already shed his own gloves, the strands of Gwyndolin’s hair running through his fingers. It feels like it should be a blasphemy, being this familiar with a living God, but it only feels as natural as it’s ever been. Almost without thought, he brings his hands to Gwyndolin’s crown and sets about removing it, gently tugging the metal away so it can be put to one side.

The noise Gwyndolin makes when the crown is removed is a sob, although the Unkindled can’t be sure if it’s in relief or sorrow. “Please,” his Lord whispers, and motions to the other man’s head. Together, they remove the Unkindled’s helmet as well and Gwyndolin wastes no time pulling him down so their faces are close, some hidden reserve of strength giving him the energy he needs. “How did you find me?”

“Sulyvahn,” the Unkindled says, his throat taut with emotion. “I’m so sorry. I should have found you sooner.” His eyes trace Gwyndolin’s face, noting how the other has grown into his godhood since they last met. He is more beautiful than the Unkindled remembers and he realises his own memory could never do the other any justice.

“It matters not,” Gwyndolin says in reply, pressing kiss after kiss against the Unkindled’s cheeks, his eyes, his lips.

The Unkindled is helpless to resist, his mind already reeling from the touch of Gwyndolin’s lips against him, returning each kiss with nothing less than adoration. “How long will it-?” but he can’t finish the sentence.

“Fret not,” Gwyndolin says, brushing his fingers against the Unkindled’s face. “These wounds of mine shall heal. How long has it been?”

“Long enough,” the Unkindled murmurs, eyes slipping closed at the feel of his Lord’s hands on him. “The First Flame has been threatened, causing the bell to toll and awaken me as an Unkindled. I failed you, my Lord. I failed to link the fire as was ordained.”

“You failed no one,” Gwyndolin says, his tone fierce. “My Blade, you are my most devoted and treasured Knight. Your duty to link the flame was accomplished the moment you swore fealty to me. Is it not so?”

“It is, my Lord,” the Unkindled says in a dawning understanding. Although he did not link the fire himself, his blade once defended the souls of the Undead who had, at one time or another, sought the same goal.  

“And so it is,” Gwyndolin repeats, softer but with no lesser conviction, his eyes dropping to take in the Unkindled’s form. “You are stronger now than when we last met. I beseech you, my Blade, link the First Flame. If only darkness remains…”

The Unkindled also understands his Beloved’s fear of the Dark, long instilled into him by his father. He bows his head in acceptance of the order and lowers his lips to Gwyndolin’s, conscious of his wounds and wishing desperately for his life, for his very soul, to enter the man beneath him to aid in his recovery. “Yes, my Soul,” he replies, feeling the wash of Gwyndolin’s breath on his face and casting it to memory. “It shall be done.”

The lie is worth it, he decides, when he is gifted with Gwyndolin’s smile. “Good,” the God breathes, his relief palpable. “Swiftly now, there isn’t much time.” As if in answer to Gwyndolin’s words, the light through the windows noticeably darkens, a hush settling over them like a fog. The Unkindled turns his face away from the windows, choosing instead to spend these tender and far too few moments with his Beloved.

 _I will link the Flame,_ he thinks in a silent pledge, holding his love closer to his chest. _I will link it to my very soul and then Gwyndolin and I will rule together over an Age of Man. I swear it._

For he is a Lord of Hollows, empowered by the strength of the Darkmoon at his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Musical Inspiration:  
> \- ‘Age of Man’ by Jo Wandrini  
> \- The Dark Sign (two albums in total) by Alex Roe 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
